


He's Wearing Red At a Funeral for Lightning

by CobaltCube (2sp00ky4y0u)



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Androids, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6837055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2sp00ky4y0u/pseuds/CobaltCube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, why can't we all just get along?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Wearing Red At a Funeral for Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Fukase isn't just climbing up into my list of favourites, he's polevaulting his way to the top. The little idiot managed to cross off just about everything needed for me to love him. Intended for a lower range? Check. Can switch between soft and strong tones almost seamlessly? Check. Weird but cohesive character design? Check. Voice like a chainsmoking possum? Check. And because I have a submicroscopic attention span, I naturally wanted to write him into a story almost immediately after finding out about him. Too bad my train of thought quickly turned into "ship him with the other little idiot and make that one the fandom bicycle already".
> 
> As always, please read, enjoy, and leave any questions, critique, or concerns in the comments below.

The noise was growing more and more by the hour. It was the Sunday before VocaCon week, a six day-long extravaganza for practically every voice synthesizing programme from Chipspeech to UTAU to Vocaloid. Companies were whipping themselves up into a frenzy setting up displays while a bevvy of musicians, engineers, and programmers were already settling into booths, peddling anything from brand new hard drives to thumb drives crammed full of MIDI samples to catch the attention of some poor schmuck's wallet. And even though it was a strictly private convention for the first couple days, civilians that had been ticketed and badged could mill around as they pleased, but it was mostly collegiate types like alumni working on Masters degrees and professors who were making sure they succeeded in getting that diploma. Too bad none of them knew how to use their inside voice.

Right now Oliver was adrift in a flood of these visitors. Thankfully no one was paying him any mind at the moment, which was the magic of dress at work: he was wearing a brown windbreaker over a worn t-shirt and black shorts while his box art outfit was sitting in a closet back at the hotel. His bandages were still on, of course, but that hardly mattered. To the untrained eye he might as well have been someone’s kid with a clumsy streak and not a multi-thousand dollar piece of machinery.

It was amazing.

Oliver busied himself by floating from stall to stall, catching glimpses of their owners in the process of prepping for the next few days, and he was watching one engineer in particular bat the idea of a lecture on hydraulics around with a professor. He tried to keep his attention, he really did, but it faded out almost as soon as came. He had a secret that most androids don’t actually care about the finer points of technology, but he knew he'd be laughed right out of the room if he said that to anyone... even though people never thought twice about how they didn't think biology was very exciting either.

He was still struggling to tune in on the banter when a commotion bubbled near the back of the room. For a split second there was a mish-mash of English and Japanese being spoken and Oliver could sense the mood take on a subtle little shift. But, it had left as quickly as it came before he could react on curiosity.

_It could’ve just been some company big shot or something. But if I’m wondering about it, then is that really what happened?_

The Engloid looked around the room. There were a few less civilians now, but it was getting close to the end of “visiting hours”. Even with a badge of approval they only had a window of time between ten AM and two PM on pre-week day. It was one forty-five now. The only people who stayed for anything near the duration were usually the ones who felt like they had to make some kind of statement about themselves. For example, professors who didn’t actually like tech studies but decided to teach them anyways because they liked the pretty paycheck it gave.

At least, according to dear lil’ sis Ruby. The rest of PFX chided her for her cynicism, but she still had a point buried somewhere underneath the snark.

Oliver stole a glace back to where the lecture engineer had been, but she must've stepped away from her booth for a moment as she wasn’t anywhere to be found.

_So what now?_

  
“Just keep walking, I guess.” Oliver mumbled. He could probably see if the Internet Co. Vocaloids were out and about since they were always among the first to arrive at VocaCon. All he needed to do now was look out for a flowing mane of purple or a fluffy swath of green. That reminded him: he was always going to be grateful he had a normal hair colour instead of the supersaturated rainbow nonsense everyone else had got. It made it harder for fans to pick him out from the crowd and he didn't look like a moron. It was a win-win all around.

  
_Blonde is technically yellow though, and yellow is definitely a colour on the light spectrum. But really, who thinks of blonde hair as yellow? I mean I know some people who call it that, but it seems like a choice of words thing, and_

Oliver was up in the atmosphere now. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and paused next to a support pillar, peering over the thicket of heads to the other side of the room. He’s done this stop-and-stare thing plenty of times, but with how his one eye glazed over as it drifted away into the distance, he's had more than enough people call it creepy. Was it really his fault though?

  
A flash of red brought him back down to Earth. A shame it was, too. He was so caught up in untangling a serious yarn of a daydream it almost would’ve been easier for him to have missed it. Oliver looked around the room for the distraction, and ah, there it is. A figure done up in red and white walking to the elevator. With their bright palette and deliberately coordinated outfit, it was definitely another Vocaloid. They were only maybe forty yards away from Oliver so he could get a decent visual of them from where he stood. It didn’t hurt that the crowds were starting to really thin out now. It still left plenty of officials on the floor, but at least he wasn’t having to peer through massive stands of bodies.

  
He suddenly giggled.  _It can’t be Arsloid. He’s way taller than that!_

  
In his defense, he literally was twelve.

  
“Mmmm… and it’s definitely not Miki, CUL, Meiko, Iroha, but the hair does look a bit like Anon’s with a dye job... Ugh, why is this family so big?”

  
When spitballing didn’t help, Oliver did the next best thing, which was to ask someone else directly about this. Sweet Ann was his first choice since she seemed to be in a constant state of Knowing Absolutely Anything About Everything. At least to him, anyways.

  
_Sweet Ann, have you heard about any newbies?_

  
A few seconds later (she was always so punctual):  _Please. Lately they’ve been pumping out so many voicebanks and models I doubt anyone has an idea about what’s going on._

  
_But I’m in the con building looking at them right now. I can’t send pictures at the moment but I can tell you what they look like. They’re dressed in red and white, I can’t tell if there’s a theme because they have got their back to me, but they do look all tattered up if that makes sense. I think they’ve got a long coat and a top hat. Does that ring any bells?_

His messenger went off with a new, different notification.  _[YOHIOloid has been invited to join.]_

  
_What? Is it an overseas type of deal?_

  
_I don’t know. That’s why I’m getting him in on this._

  
It took a few for the bilingualoid to actually start responding, with Oliver flipping back and forth between the stranger and the buzz of activity thrumming through the room. It was contagious and he was already back to walking when there was a new message.

  
_Oliver, where is the newbie at now, can you still see them??_

  
He looked over his shoulder.

  
_Yea. I think they’re glued to that one spot by the elevator._

  
_Okay what are they doing?_

  
_Standing mostly._

  
_You sure?? ?_

  
_… Don’t say that! That’s creepy! But I’m sure._

  
Oliver came to a stop by an unoccupied booth. He kept his eye on “Red”, as he’s taken to calling him – turns out it was a boy after all – and tried looking for anything especially odd. He really wanted to give him the benefit of a doubt that he was waiting for someone, but it’s been nearly ten minutes now and he’s still looking as listless as ever.

  
That’s another thing, too: Red had a nasty case of looking like he was a hair away from collapsing in on himself at any moment. His eyes were at half-mast and his entire posture was slack, like a doll only kept upright by its stand. If Oliver had to guess, he’d figure that existence for Red was somewhere between watching paint dry and getting your teeth pulled out one by one.

 _Fukase !_ _ふかせ!! ! That’s his name._

_Fukase? Never heard of such a fellow._

  
_He’s another Eng+Jap voicebank but from Yamaha and was made in 2016. They finished making his model a few days ago and now they plan to show him at the con on Tuesday._

  
Well, it definitely seemed like they jumped the gun. Maybe they were just giving him a chance to acclimate to the outside world before the big reveal day. After all it wasn’t like anyone was around to take pictures or record video, doing that was prohibited anyways, and it wasn’t too crowded so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed and panic. That is, if he was capable of panicking at all.

  
Oliver was still ruminating when he looked towards Fukase again, and his heart hammered away in his chest when he saw that he was staring right back at him. On top of that, now that he was in full view Oliver got a good look of a new, remarkably grotesque detail: the flesh on the left side of his face was warped. It seemed burnt, as if Fukase had been on the wrong end of an acid spill. Oliver felt ill from that by itself, but when they finally locked gazes he was sure he was going to lose it.

  
That eye. That  _eye_. Solid red. It gave Oliver a deep-seated feeling of unease underneath a burst of nausea, like he was looking at a limb that had been turned one hundred and eighty degrees in its socket. It was wrong in every way and he wondered how this abomination of a design had gotten the green light back when Fukase was first made so many years ago.

  
He was still staring.

  
Oliver’s processor finally kicked in and he was immediately bombarded with protests, questions, and commands about what to do next. He swallowed the lump of cotton wadding up in his throat, stopped himself from bursting into tears because for some reason that’s just what Vocaloids did under a lot of stress, and it was stupid, but what could he do about it? Oliver blinked once or twice. Fukase hadn’t even twitched.

  
_Go say hi, stupid._

  
_I don’t wanna!_

  
He had a bad feeling about Fukase, but he had an even worse feeling about what would happen if word got out that the most popular Engloid refused to greet a new member of the family. Oliver forced himself to turn tail and start walking towards the burn victim simulator/other Vocaloid while ignoring how loudly he was yelling at himself in his own head. Unfortunately, he took too many steps too fast, and before he knew it Fukase was right in front of him.

  
“H-hi there. You’re the new guy that just came out, right?” He didn’t recognize the words as his own. He just knew that they could have been noises coming from a brain damaged coma patient for all they were worth.

  
Oliver didn’t get a response. Behind him someone walked by with an armful of something that made an awful lot of noise, but he willed himself into ignoring it for the sake of being polite. Like that did any good. Fukase didn’t look interested in a single thing other than his impersonation of a week old lump of roadkill. Even his breathing lacked tenacity to liveliness; the inhales were short, shallow, and sparse so they were almost imperceptible despite how him and Oliver were face-to-face. The exhales weren’t any better — they were very slow and careful, also designed to be invisible. It was like Fukase was engineered to unnerve.

“Hey, look, I know you’re new and you’re probably shy, but you can talk to me if you’d like… I promise I won’t bite,” Oliver tried again. He hadn’t realized he was digging his nails into his palms. 

It was hardly audible but he could’ve sworn Fukase had managed to get out an “mm-hm”. Small victories it’ll be, then. Oliver smiled.

  
“There you go! So yeah, um, I’m Oliver from Power FX. I’m all English, but if it’s a problem I can switch to Japanese if you’d like. It won’t be very good because of my accent, but uh, Yohio told me it was okay for getting the general idea from it… Ah, I should probably tell you who Yohio is. He knows Japanese and English too, so hopefully you two should get along okay, and he’s basically my big brother, even though he was released after me, so I guess technically that makes him my little brother at the same time… dunno, it was always a weird thing to me.”

  
There he goes with the coma patient noises again. At least Fukase was being patient with him. He kept his gaze level with the blonde, but as Oliver kept pushing the conversation he realized how the redhead’s eye was drilling straight into him, and suddenly he felt violated without ever being touched. He managed to stop himself from further embarrassment by stumbling over his own tongue with a whole lot of "uhs" and other filler nonsense, cutting off the flow like the world's lousiest tourniquet. And meanwhile, Oliver could feel a creeping nag in the corner of his mind begging him to get out before the last thing anyone heard from him was an obituary in the paper. He didn't really care much if it was rude to think like that at this point. In fact, he was already sifting through ways he could politely close this pitiful one-sided excuse for a conversation, but before he could open his mouth again Fukase’s hand was wrapped around his wrist to drag him off.

  
Once again Oliver’s processor was a country mile behind real time so it wasn’t like he could make a fuss about it. All the better, too, since it looked like something finally had gotten the other boy’s attention, and he didn’t seem interested in letting go of it. Fukase ended up pulling him over to a corner of the room close to the door for the shipping dock round back. It was somewhat blocked off with boxes, hardly a wall but still enough to guarantee alone time. The kind of place that, if they were stupid teenagers chock full of hormones, it would’ve been the perfect spot to do regrettable things.

The only sounds Oliver could make were a jumbled salad of syllables kind of like the word “what” until Fukase gripped his wrist tighter. The thunderbolt of pain up his arm shut him up amazingly fast and he felt close to crying again, but for different reasons this time. Fukase’s posture had become as tense as a drawstring, his eye darting from Oliver to the space behind him like he was expecting the worst to come peeling around the corner any second.

  
Meanwhile, the blonde was busy trying to stomp on the urge to either give in or up. He felt a hand on both of his shoulders, but he kept himself averted from what he was pretty sure was locked right on him, because how pathetic is this? Fukase's given age couldn’t have been any more than two years older than his. Oliver should’ve been fighting him off. Yet he had no will to do it. He was so accepting of the worst case scenario so passively that he couldn’t find it in himself to fish up the effort to bother. Or maybe he thought that a confrontation would've made it worse. Either way, he had a feeling this was what it was like to embrace fate.

  
A hand underneath his face, forcing him to look up. Yeah, a solid red eye and another eye, this one with, to no one’s surprise, a red iris. Oliver bit his own tongue to give Fukase his best glare. For some reason the other Vocaloid seemed completely fine with this. He was even wearing an expression that wasn’t one hundred and ten percent apathy. Oliver couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but it yanked on his heartstrings nonetheless, which he hated himself for.

  
“What do you want from me.” Questions weren’t allowed right now because Oliver figured that to ask a question is to admit fear.

  
It took a minute, but he finally, finally got a full response: “To stand still.”

  
Everything the Engloid could’ve done in that moment wouldn’t have been productive in the least, so instead he focused on his crescendo of panic as Fukase dug out a cable from one of his coat pockets, plugging one end into a port on the back of his neck before reaching around to do the same to the blonde with its other end. It was a connector cable, the kind used for large data transfers when mobile capacity wasn’t enough or to get access into second party databases. Vocaloids usually didn’t need them. This was probably why Fukase hesitated, his fingers gripping the USB hovering just millimeters away from the port. It would’ve been a great time for Oliver to run, but he felt no drive to do so. He wanted to see what would happen next.

  
A soft click. The cable was in.

  
_A virus._

  
A gunshot of white fire up and down his spine.

  
_He definitely gave you a virus_.

  
Oliver gasped as his knees gave out from under him almost completely. Fukase loosely wrapped his arms around his waist to stop his fall.

  
_You **idiot.**_

  
Sharing connector cables usually caused a second of sensation right after being hooked up, but this was different. This wasn’t a little flash in the dark that came and went. The initial bang was shortly followed by a steady pulse of warmth trawling all through Oliver’s system, foreign but surprisingly pleasant, and he wondered if Fukase felt it too. Then he realized how close he was pressed to the other Vocaloid and pulled himself away, flopping backwards onto a nearby box that had been shoved into the corner. He leaned his head back, bumping it against the wall with a dull thud while he tried to reassert the rat’s nest Fukase made of his nerves. Then he was cut short with a message. He didn’t want to look at it, but he hardly had a choice now.

  
_please._

  
With the message was a gateway and a request to open it. At least that was normal. Connector cables required an open data path between units with their mutual volition. Fine, whatever. Oliver let Fukase in.

  
He already concocted a thousand ideas about what could’ve happened next, from a flood of horrible, disgusting pictures to a downpour of malware from the pits of digital Hell. He got none of that. Instead, it was that warm pulse intensifying and an experience so baffling, so surreal, Oliver swore it would be etched into his memory forever. It started with a drip of adjectives, with him picking out (quite frankly ridiculous) phrases like “sweet voice”, “steady presence”, and “nervous but gentle”, and he wasn’t sure what to do with all the descriptions that made him sound like some sixteenth century waif in both English and Japanese. His best guess was to make a joke even though speaking was getting harder by the second.

  
“H-hey, what’s your deal? You don’t hav’ta lie t’my face like that y’know.”

  
Oliver’s eye had been closed, but he opened it to see Fukase scowling down at him. He must’ve stepped closer. The pulse grew hotter and he whined. He could feel a hum beginning to build somewhere in the back of his neck and it worried him, but he didn’t think it safe to try and take the USB out yet.

The next thing he received was a command:  _keep looking at me._

  
The hand was underneath his face again when reality seemed to have done a double take for Oliver. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but all of a sudden he was experiencing himself in third person from what he guessed was Fukase’s point of view. He wanted to worry about overheating because the thrumming was getting hotter as it pooled in his stomach like molten lead, but he was dragged away from it every time he tried. Oliver gripped the edges of the box tightly but he didn’t feel his knuckles pop as he did. He saw how his eye was a wide open window into uncertainty mixed with exhilaration, how his windbreaker was sliding off his shoulders, how his hair was an awful mess that apparently still framed his face perfectly, and he got to feel Fukase’s awe in how lucky the redhead obviously must be in this very moment. Oliver tried cutting off the stream of subjective hell, getting blocked every time up until he sensed a whole lot of courage being gathered for a kiss to the lips.

  
It was rather short, maybe two seconds tops. Yet it was an epileptic fit of an experience, like a split screen between kissing and being kissed, and Oliver got a new, sudden influx of adjectives bulleting in from Fukase’s conscience. The pulse rose to a brain-boiling volume and he wanted to scream because the port felt like it was going to blister apart. Oliver could hear his shaky breaths, struggling to keep form, all his horrible little noises ( _they aren’t horrible i promise_ ), and the stupid, stupid chuckle of someone who knew that he got exactly what he wanted.

  
_“Stop-!”_

  
Too late. If taking in the USB was a gunshot then this was an atom bomb. Quiet, a flash of pure white all around him, and he felt frozen in time just the same. Fire rolled down his body, hot enough to feel cold. He heard about this before. It was supposed to be amazing. Fukase was leaning over him, his hands on top of Oliver’s and their foreheads resting against each other’s. The apathetic face was gone for the time being, replaced with a look of nothing but calm elation.

  
_… .. . ……. .._

  
_Who the hell do you think you are?!_

  
_mine and yours._

  
When it was over it was like a newborn deer staggering to its feet as the blonde tried to push himself off of the box. He was trembling violently and speaking meant absolutely nothing, but no matter, he had a pretty good idea about what to do next at any rate. Oliver yanked out the connector cable from his neck and straightened himself out the best he could, readjusting his windbreaker and running his fingers through his hair until he assumed that it didn’t look like a disaster. And he walked. Then he ran, sprinting once he passed through the lobby doors into the outside world. It was a nice day. Overcast with a touch of wind.

  
The hotel was four blocks down from the convention building, a whole four blocks away from the ones he actually loved and trusted. Unfortunately, when Oliver stumbled into the room where Big Al and Yohio were staying in with an eye full of tears (finally) and a mouth full of apologies it was too late to do much of anything. Fukase was already back in his storage container, the contraption hissing shut as it was depressurized for safe keeping until Tuesday before locking with an oily click. It took nearly an hour to worm the whole story out of Oliver.

  
Later on that night, Yohio tried to give his best solution: “I can delete that part of today if you want.” However, the offer was instantly turned down when he told him that he’d need to use, what else, a connector cable to gain access to Oliver’s personal memories.

  
It was quiet for a few minutes before he came up with a new idea where he could just give him the administrator’s password so he could do it himself. It was the pinnacle of potentially stupid ideas, especially when he didn’t know what Oliver would do exactly once given the key to accessing sensitive data. For all that it was worth he might try deleting System 32. But when he saw how hope lit his face up like a Christmas tree, Yohio sent the message hardly even a moment later, password attached.

Two days later and it was like nothing ever happened. VocaCon was in full swing with a flurry of people from around the globe and clusters of androids sprinkled among them. Sweet Ann and Big Al got to enjoy giving a demonstration of their brand new modules up on the performance stage courtesy of a donation from a previous rival company. Ruby entertained herself with ridiculous little competitions against anyone who’d take up her offer, from who could walk backwards down a flight of stairs the fastest to who could sing the deepest note— and believe it or not it was a 1:1 ratio of wins to loses. Yohio made sure to catch up with Gakupo once they were both done with official business, and the two would always run off somewhere to do something ridiculous. At one point they almost burned down the entire building with nothing but a shot of sake and an abandoned lighter.

  
And Oliver? He was busy evading Len because he still had a pair of his headphones that were loaned to him half a year ago, but forgot back home while packing for the con. Hey, maybe the Kagamine kid forgot about them.

  
“Oliver?  _Oliver!_ Get over here!”

  
Nope. It didn't take any time at all for Len to practically pile drive Oliver into the floor while demanding him to tell if he had them and where they were, because he couldn't help being obnoxious about his possessions. Unfortunately, the Engloid was wearing his box art outfit since Vocaloids were required to be “in uniform” all week, so when he tried to slip out from underneath Len the tail of his coat was yanked so he'd fall right back down.

  
“I’m not letting up until you give them back, Oliver!”

  
“They’re eighty miles away at the manor! What even is your bloody problem anyways?”

  
“They were my good headphones is what my problem is!”

  
“Then why would you ever give them to me if you knew exactly that this was going to happen?”

  
“Uh, because I’m an idiot maybe?”

  
_Hey, you two. Calm down because me and Gakupo can both hear you from upstairs._

  
Then, _But he's right. Len is definitely an idiot._

  
Oliver cackled. “At least Yohi agrees with the sentiment. You’ve got that going for you!”

  
Len half-sighed, half-yelled in aggravation before standing up to let the other blonde go, but not without shooting off a lick of Japanese under his breath.

“Oh stop being such a sore loser. I’m sure you’ll get to try and make me eat dirt again before you know it…  _Lenny._ ”

  
And with that Oliver was off again with an angry earful and a big grin. One-upping the Cryptonloids always did make his day. He still had a million-watt smile on his face when he walked towards the Yamaha section of the floor, which thankfully didn’t have much left over from the earlier crowds. He didn’t know what the fuss was all about; apparently a new model was due to be shown today from what little he’s heard. He tried gleaning more detail from the rest of PFX, but no one seemed interested in spilling the beans for him. Annoying, sure, but hardly critical to Oliver’s survival, so he took the ambiguity like it was going to be a surprise instead.

  
“It’ll be like having a new little brother or sister. Like I haven't already got enough of those,” He muttered to himself as he tried to peer around the stage to catch a glimpse of the mystery model. But when there wasn’t anything to be found Oliver gave a little huff. “Well, guess I’ll be getting that sibling later this week then…”

  
He was turning to head back to the rest of the con when a flash of red from the left wing caught his attention and held it fast. He couldn’t see anyone in his periphery vision, so he looked around to see a very strangely dressed individual stepping out from behind one of the towering amps used for decor. He had a cane, a top hat, a ragged, edgy appearance all over, and a severe red and white colour scheme that hurt to stare at for too long. And what’s his name…?

  
Oh, right, the sign said Fukase.

  
“Oi, you there. Are you the newbie? You ought to be, because I can’t place your name or your face from anywhere, but I mean, welcome anyways! I’m Oliver from Power FX. It’s good to meet you, and-“

  
_Oliver, where are you?_

  
_Meeting the new guy at the Yamaha section. Why do you ask, Ann?_

  
When he didn’t get a response right away he continued his introduction, going on about who he was and how he was happy to meet a new member of the Vocaloid family, even if they looked a bit weird, not that he was weird or anything, but he was just unique was all. It wasn’t a bad thing since they definitely have had their fair share of oddballs, but-

  
“Oh hey, there you are, bro. I’ve been looking for you all over,”

  
Oliver whipped around to look up at Yohio. For some reason he looked a little distressed or on edge.

  
“Yohio? Why are you here? Did you come to meet Fukase too? I mean, he’s bilingual, so I bet you’ve got some common ground already if you'll be talking.”

  
“Yeah yeah that’s great. But uh, Ollie, Ann’s been asking me nonstop where you are because there’s a PFX stage demo coming up soon and we all need to be there. Didn’t you get any messages about it?”

  
The Engloid frowned. “Uh, no, don’t think I have. Must’ve missed them.”

  
“Probably. But at least I was here to save you, huh?” Yohio grinned. “Like this is hardly the first time.”

  
Oliver had to be faced all the way around in order to talk to him, so thankfully he could not see the way that Fukase was boring straight into Yohio. His expression was a perfect wasteland devoid of life, but he somehow managed to focus every iota of anger he had into his stare, giving away a loyalty to hatred that was surely only forged moments ago. Yohio refused to let himself be shaken by this little brat, but he could definitely see how Oliver had gotten psyched out so easily. And yeah, the red eye was freaking him out too. 

  
“Come on Ollie, we got to go. I really don’t want Ruby yelling at me two times in one day. She was already losing it earlier about some dumb thing with a microphone.” The pair had taken three steps away from the stage when a soft, raspy voice spoke up.

  
“ _Watashi wa anata o nikumu dakara koko ni modoranai de._ ”

  
Yohio froze. He opened his mouth to respond, decided against it at the last moment. Then he snagged his common sense on his pride anyways.

  
“ _Watashi mo anata o nikumimasu_.”

  
And they kept walking, never stopping no matter how many times Oliver asked him what they said.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The whole thing about Oliver getting the heebie-jeebies from Fukase's eye hopefully made some kind of sense, because I'd assume that he'd connect the dots like "red = sick, bad, do not touch". 
> 
> Also, I really hope that people won't be reading this and taking away the idea that Fukase is some kind of rapist now. God.


End file.
